Who Watches the WATCH?
by Steven McKinnon
Summary: Members of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch debate the merits of having their exploits televised, in this short story.


**Who Watches the W.A.T.C.H.?**

'Can't says I really see old Stoneface bein' happy at having one of them wax cylinder filming crews following us around,' said Corporal Nobby Nobbs. The A-M Imp TV contract hung limp in his hands like a dead fish. Nobby's touch often had that effect. 'He'll go spare!'

'Can't see how it would hurt really,' said Sergeant Fred Colon, slipping another sugar cube into his tea. He'd resolved to only take one lump these days, but years in the City Watch had taught him to be doubly—and triply—sure of the facts, and sometimes quadruply if he felt the need to exorcise the taste of Cut-Me-Own-Throat-Dibbler's culinary wares. 'It'd show the city we mean business, everyone will see us and-' Colon frowned, his gaze plummeting to what he generously called his 'healthy paunch'. Bits of him where squeezing out the space between his armour. _Lots_ of bits of him. 'Ye gods— _everyone_ will see us!'

'I don't like it,' said Angua. She placed her helmet on, eager to get a start on the night's shift. The moon sat high and bright tonight. She could feel it without having to look. 'This Mr. Slick wants a "first-hand account".

'I'm used to things bein' counted in third-, fourth- and fifth-hands meself,' commented Nobby, whose uniform had been worn by at least a dozen previous owners—hand, feet and all.

'Showing a documentary about us will give away our methods, procedures... Our secrets,' Angua pointed out, 'and I don't think Commander Vimes will want the Assassin's Guild, Thieves, or—heavens forbid—the Fools Guild getting any insight. Not to mention "international syndication rights". The Sammies in Klatch, Fourecks and beyond won't know what hit them when their criminals start learning from us.'

'I think you're wrong,' Captain Carrot said to her without taking his eyes from the gleaming breast plate he'd been polishing for the last twenty minutes.

Angua sighed. _Of course you do_ , _and you'll have a perfectly justified reason for thinking so, one which I won't be able to find any fault with and which I'll of course end up agreeing with, making me love you even more—and just a little bit infuriated_. Angua forced herself to think about something else for a moment. She felt things getting a little hairy.

'He'll go spare. He will,' whispered Nobby.

Carrot ignored him—which has long been regarded as the best way to deal with Nobby—and continued: 'Image is more important than ever. For better or worse-'

'Spare, he'll go.'

'-it's for _Public Relations-_ '

'That sort of thing's frowned upon, ain't it?'

'-and putting names to faces.'

'Ye gods,' Colon started, 'folk'll know Nobby's name _and_ see him?'

'Oi,' said Nobby, wiping a full six inches of snot onto his sleeve, 'what's wrong with "Nobby"?'

'Everything that could ever be wrong with a person is wrong with you.'

Nobby shrugged, a movement which liberated a second stream of snot from the snare of his nostrils. 'Quite like my name.'

'It's unbecoming. It's a _yoof-em-ism_.'

'Wot's that?'

'A polite way of being dirty—and your name means… Well it sounds like, um, well, it sounds like a dirty organ.'

'Well I like my name and if it weren't my name I'd choose it to be my name— _yoof-em-ism_ and all. Anyhow, better than being named after _punk-choo-asion_ that no-one knows how to use prop'rly.'

Sergeant Colon was too busy being impressed at Nobby for knowing the word 'punctuation' to be insulted.

Carrot—choosing not to embroil himself in the quagmire of Nobby and Fred Colon's intellectual discussion on the nuances of linguistics (and evading Angua's glare as he continued pointing out the multitude of ways in which she was wrong)—brought the conversation back around to its topic: 'Displaying the Watch's ethnic, gender and various-sates-of living diversity will help foster trust in all corners of the community. And when the city's criminal element sees how popular we are, they'll simply stop what they're doing when they realise they'll get caught by our advanced techniques—and perhaps apologise to those they've wronged! Plus any royalties can be put towards Lady Sybil's charities.'

' _Ha!_ ' said Nobby. 'Ankh-Morpork ain't had nowt to do with royalty for years!'

'Not officially anyway,' muttered Angua, which earned her a look from Captain Carrot. She busied herself by examining the die-cast metal model imp camera, a token that Mr. Slick had sent along with the contract. She sent it scattering across a table, her stomach twisting at the thought of a camera crew following her—especially at night.

'There we are,' said Carrot. Satisfied that his breast plate mimicked the sun's glare with sufficient brightness, he fastened it around his impressive frame. 'This is a good thing for the Watch and for the city,' he said with a smile, which shone brighter even than his armour.

'The _whole_ city…' said Colon. 'Eh, in a completely unrelated note, do I look fat in this?'

'No,' said Nobby.

Colon chose not to remind himself that Nobby wasn't so much a liar as someone who simply recognised the truth and was automatically repelled by it—such as the time he farted onto a candle and proclaimed that honest-to-gods it wasn't him, even as his singed bottom-hair spat coils of smoke all around him.

Sergeant Cheery Littlebottom straightened her beard and stood to her full height, bringing her head to the edge of a table. 'I'm excited for it,' she announced. 'Anything that furthers the understanding of the field of forensics. Stick a recording imp in front of a wizard, and he'll jump at the chance to explain how everything works. He'll be completely wrong of course— _imp_ licating himself, so to speak—but that means no-one will know how to hide their tracks. And you know how Commander Vimes likes to catch people who aren't nearly as clever as they think they are.'

A silence descended on the room like a thin velvet cloak as the various members of the Watch considered this.

Sergeant Detritus—who had picked the model impcam up and had been staring at it for a full five minutes—finally had the presence of mind to ask: 'How dis work?'

'It doesn't,' said Commander Vimes as he strode into the room, 'which makes it an apt metaphor for the "creatives" and "artists" that are pushing this show.'

Nobby scowled. 'A meta for what?'

'Sir!' said Carrot, throwing Vimes a salute.

Vimes nodded. His grim face seemed grimmer than usual (1). 'Dorfl, Downspout and one of the Igors are in the Shades. There are bodies — lots of 'em. Angua, take Gaspode and see if you can sniff out a trail—I think you'll have a lot of options to choose from. Carrot, knock on doors. Knock twice on the ones that don't open. Littlebottom, get your forensics kit out and examine the scene. Colon, you're on crowd control. Take Detritus and von Humpeding with you—she has a talent for scaring people off, and Detritus has a talent for scaring people from turning up in the first place. Nobby! When that clown from _The Times_ shows up with his wretched iconographer, I want you to stick on him like Dibbler's custard—hopefully the smell will keep 'em at bay. And put those shillings back in the charity box.'

The squad saluted and vacated the room, Nobby coughing as he dropped the coins into the box. Vimes picked the A-M Imp TV contract up, and examined the miniature impcam—a token of goodwill and promise to 'only show the good bits'.

 _Ha,_ thought Vimes. _The 'good bits' being where we screw up, lose evidence, hurt an innocent bystander, or Nobby. That producer lad Slick was too excited to get some gruesome footage from the get-go—too excited by half. 'Start things with a bang, get the viewers hooked'. And he genuinely thought that he was playing Vetinari like a fiddle when he pitched this fool idea._

Something about Slick bothered Vimes. Something about most people bothered Vimes, even when he had to work really hard to find was it Dorfl had said about the crime scene? That the bodies looked 'arranged'? _Yeah. Perfectly arranged to fit a 3:2 aspect ratio, I don't doubt. Looks like you'll be getting your first-hand account of how we operate after all, Mr. Slick_.

Vimes put the contract for _W.A.T.C.H_ to a candle, used it to light a cigar, and marched out of the room.

(1) The grimness was ruined somewhat by the remnants of one of Little Sam's 'hilarious' practical experiments involving different kinds of poo strewn over his cape.


End file.
